MY Silmaril!
by Brave November
Summary: The children of Amon Ereb invent a new game, to the dismay of the Sons of Feanor.


(Discalimer: I do not own anything created by Tolkien.)

"Did _you_ put them up to this?" asked Maedhros, stabbing an accusatory finger at his brother.

Maglor stared down at the courtyard that had been transformed into a play area with a dumbfounded expression. There were not many children in the fortress of Amon Ereb--slightly less than two dozen elves of various kindreds and a smattering of humans--but in spite of their limited numbers they were conducting an extremely convincing four-way battle. The second son of Fëanor gaped as the sound of their war-cries drifted up to him.

"MINE! The Silmarils are _mine_, I tell you!"

"Must. . . have. . . shiny!" shrilled a diminutive Avar with a crown of ivy vines. Waving his willow-branch sword wildly, he charged a Noldorin boy half as large again as himself and snatched madly at the other's closed fist. "_My_ shiny!"

"Back, puny elf king! Only the dwarves can possess the radiance of the Silmaril!"

"_My_ shiny," the elfling insisted. "Grey Elves attack!"

Maglor watched in speechless horror as the "dwarf" was swarmed by five elflings in grey cloaks, evidently meant to represent the forces of Doriath. "I most certainly did not," he said indignantly. "We must find Elrond and Elros, there is no telling how this will affect them. . ."

Grim-faced, Maedhros pointed to the north stair, where Borlach's many-times-great-grandson Boromir and a few cohorts were defending the landing against a fourth determined band, led by the sons of Elwing.

"Cower, dark scum! The sons of Fëanor are come!" cried Elrond, who held a curved branch festooned with frayed string.

Maglor's jaw dropped.

Elros, one hand hidden in his sleeve and a red scarf wrapped around his forehead, bared his teeth in what he probably thought was a furious grimace. "We want our birthright NOW!" he yelled, and charged up the stairs.

"You will take these Silmarils from my dead, cold hands!" hollered 'Morgoth' defiantly, then added, "Which will never happen because they are burning me! Ouch!" as a logical afterthought.

"Careful, brother mine," declaimed Elrond dramatically. "We cannot best power divine. Not with swords a-ringing. I'll kill him with my singing."

Elros sniffed. "Oh, all right," he said grudgingly. "But I get to strike the final blow, remember?"

Elrond nodded and ran his fingers across the "harp". Boromir clapped his hands to his head and fell to the ground. "Ack! The terrible music of Maglor has deafened me!"

"Deafened?" exclaimed Maglor from the parapet. "_Terrible_!"

"I think," said Maedhros, amused in spite of himself, "that it was meant in the kindest way possible." He watched his counterpart charge up the stairs, flailing madly at Boromir's henchmen. "I suppose we should feel flattered, all things considered. They _did_ choose to emulate us."

"Perhaps," said Maglor, his voice low and sad. "But I find it unsettling to see the War even here, among the children."

Maedhros shrugged. "I find it more unsettling that they have chosen to begin this game the day before the delegation from Belegost arrives. I doubt the Dwarves will see the dubious charm of the situation."

"Hey! Sons of Fëanor!" yelled someone in the courtyard, causing both of the brothers to glance down--but it was only the diminutive Thingol, hailing Elrond and Elros. "Join the warriors of Doriath against the foul Naugrim!"

Maglor winced. "I see your point."

"Yes," said Maedhros, glancing sideways at the nearest pair of sentries. "It would not do to be calling up old grudges now. Or even not-so-old ones." Rodendil had been with Turgon until Gondolin's fall, and both he and Ciryon had been refugees of Sirion. Maedhros knew that it was only for the sake of the Sons of Elwing that they'd never tried to plunge a sword into his back.

"We can't ally with you," explained Elros. "We'd have to fight you for the Silmarils after we beat the Naugrim, and that wouldn't be nice."

"Maybe we could share the Silmarils," suggested the ivy-crowned youngster. The sons of Elwing appeared to be considering it, but then he added, "Two for me and one for you."

"NEVER!" yelled the brothers in unison, and charged. The battle became a three-way struggle, with Boromir's company joining in on the side of the Fëanorians. Evidently those who were defeated joined the ranks of their conquerors.

_Not unlike reality_, mused Maedhros. His fortress was held by a handful of loyal Noldor, outcast Men, and Sindar or Avari who found even his company preferable to life on their own. There was no sense of comradeship, nothing that held them together as a people save the conviction that alone, none of them would survive. He doubted that a children's game would change their minds--but it might awaken old resentments and hatreds.

"I want them to have forgotten this game by nightfall," he said abruptly. "If they are so eager to play at war, give them an enemy we can all hate--werewolves, or Tevildo's kind."

Maglor nodded. "I will sing of the great hunters in the days before the Sundering," he said decisively. "They may go to bed fearful that the Dark Foe will come and snatch them away in the night, but they will not remind of us of. . ."

"Of the enmity among ourselves," Maedhros finished for him. "See to it."

In the courtyard below, the game had come to a standstill.

"Now what?" asked Boromir, looking disgruntled. "We've got them all, and there's nobody left to fight."

"There's _always _somebody left to fight," insisted the Avarin boy. "And they have to have a Silmaril. How else will you know you've won?"

The children considered this solemnly. Finally Hithwen, a girl of mixed Sindarin and Telerin descent, suggested, "Your father's got a Silmaril, doesn't he? The one from Doriath?"

"Oh!" said Elros brightly. "That's right. It's on a big ship up in the sky." He looked thoughtfully at the pieces of jewelry that served as Silmarils. "What if I give you this ring and some of you go to the top of the wall and the rest of us attack you?"

"But. . . _can_ we attack the heavens?" asked one boy doubtfully.

"They've got a Silmaril, haven't they?"

The sons of Fëanor exchanged glances, Maglor's sad and Maedhros's rueful. "I think they've gotten the general idea," said the latter, half-smiling.

"All too well," said Maglor mournfully.

"Waxing melancholy again, brother?" said Maedhros disapprovingly. "Over a children's game? Don't let it disturb you. Don't let it disturb _anybody_." He turned on his heel and strode away.

Maglor watched as the children divided into three teams, each with a Silmaril and a fortress to defend. As he studied the chaotic melee in the courtyard below, something about the composition of each side struck him. The children had not divided into factions according to race or kindred, but seemingly at random. Noldor, Avari, Sindar, and the odd human fought alongside or against one another with equal glee. _If,_ he mused, _one could set aside the horror of children playing at war, and war among themselves at that, it would be almost appealing._

But Maedhros, glancing at Hithwen as she defended her Silmaril with violent strokes of a broom, thought,_ If only it could be that easy._

(AN: This began as a game. Whenever things got boring on long car trips or around the house, I would randomly snatch some shiny object--usually somebody else's jewelry--and shout "MY Silmaril!" It's slightly juvenile--okay, _very_ juvenile--but my youngest sister and her friends seem to enjoy it. And because they know nothing about the Silmarillion, they aren't concerned with Deathless Oaths, Kinslayings, and other Important Stuff. They just know that I've got something shiny and they want it back. Sometime within the past few days, the idea morphed into a story involving Elrond, Elros, and various other First-Age children. And here it is.

Many, many thanks to Huinesoron for beta-ing.)


End file.
